©2022 Mel Reynes do not re-publish without permission
Today my arm fell off. It was my fault really.
I should probably back up and start at the beginning. There’s a surprising number of slow, shambling, steps between moving into a new apartment and getting resurrected by your boomer witch landlord to do house chores.
I’m Willa Werkinstine, graduate of a pretty-good-college and finder of a modest apartment in a nice area near the city. This one had a dope double parlor where I could set up a desk to work from home and even a small backyard with a grill I could use. Nearby were some decent restaurants and the farmer’s market was only a 20-minute walk away. Rent was a little high, but if I took on some extra freelance projects, I could make it work. And if I didn’t get this place now, the prices would keep climbing and I’d never be able to afford the neighborhood. Have you checked housing prices these days?
Of course, I looked the owner up before I signed the lease. I saw that Tracey was a witch. She came up on a ton of pagan message boards. The GIFs were fabulous. No big deal, I thought, everybody’s got their own thing. I mean, my college roommate was both a nudist and a freegan who owned one cassette tape of a radio DJ from the 90s that they played on loop. I just asked that their friends not sit on my bed. So by comparison, Tracey didn’t even warrant a worry. Hell, she accepted rent through Ca$hmo.
I moved in on a Saturday. I got my friends to help move my stuff. My parents wanted to help, but dad was on permanent disability from work due to his back and my mom was terrible at helping. Like, truly terrible. She once tried to make pumpkin pie and bought a plastic pumpkin without realizing. How do you even do that? If I let her “help” she’d end up packing my computer with the eggs and then dropping the whole thing down the stairs. I told her she could come and visit once everything was set up, which seemed to make her happy enough. It’s a pity that it never actually panned out.
The day was sunny and just an all-around wonderful June day. I’d scored this apartment mid-month because someone broke their lease, which was great because I didn’t have to worry about being on top of someone also trying to move out. I could take my time moving in. So we packed every inch of my friends’ economy shit-box cars to get my stuff to the new place. At one point my friend Zori looked like a Tetris piece in the passenger seat. There was stuff on top, behind, and underneath them. Luckily Zori was very skinny, haha. Moving the mattress was a near miracle. We didn’t have rope so Tall Andrew and I just held on with our arms out the windows and tried to go slow on backroads. We laughed the whole way even though my arm could barely bend the next morning.
At the end of the day of moving we were all sweaty and gross. We bought way too much pizza and ate on the floor with paper towel plates. The only light in the darkening apartment was a single standing lamp with moths fluttering around the bare bulb. I’d neglected to notice on the tour that the place had zero overhead lights. Not a big deal, I’d go to a big box store and grab some cheap standing lamps to brighten the place up. I slept on my mattress on the floor because I was too tired to set up the bed.
That first Saturday night I could hear the thumping from Tracey’s Saturday night pagan meeting. It was like a really great bass track to drift off to. She was done by midnight and the incense smelled like an awesome campfire. Her friends didn’t even block the driveway. I had one of the best nights of sleep in my life when I lived in the upstairs apartment.
The neighborhood was nice, but not too nice, by which I mean that it wasn’t a 100% white and gentrified neighborhood. The wife in the couple next door, Gabriala, was black and worked as head of concierge for the fancy hotel downtown. We’d sit on her porch and chat about all the bonkers over-privileged guests the hotel would get. They moved out of the neighborhood a couple of years ago. Have you met the new neighbors? I keep meaning to.
So I got my first apartment all on my own, in the going-to-be-cool-neighborhood. My stuff was more or less setup and I was ready to be An Adult just like my parents had hoped. I got a job teaching night classes and filled in with freelance work. I was making pretty good pay right out of college. It was inconsistent as hell, but my yearly tax returns were respectable. And there was a small part of me that hoped one day I’d make enough that I could buy Tracey’s place if she ever wanted to downgrade or–god forbid–passed on.
I know how this all sounds. I wasn’t actually planning for the future I wanted and just letting things happen to me. But, like, that’s every young generation. If you need somewhere to sit, you can use the mattress. I don’t use it anymore.
Besides her Saturday night meetups, I didn’t see Tracey much. Anytime I saw her friends they were so sweet and called me “Tracey’s Wonderful Willa.” They all looked like Stevie Nicks meets Practical Magic extras. Lots of ripped layers and punk jewelry mixed with a dash of Ren Faire. I suddenly got a whole extended family of aunties. I really liked this one named Gerry. She always wore punk shirts and we’d talk about the local bands we liked. She was very insistent that I check out her artwork. Her card said she specialized in “most goddess figures.” I’m pretty sure I saw Tracey’s vagina on her website. After that I tried to steer the conversation to other topics.
One time I ended up at her house for a party with a friend on a Friday night. We pre-gamed and my friend was convinced if I went alone I’d get abducted into a cult. She gave us a tour and to my tipsy brain it seemed like an infinite amount of rooms in this little Victorian house. We went up and down the main stairs, back stairs, servant stairs, and I think something called laundry stairs? All the windows were stained glass so when you looked out it was a magical psychedelic realm. What the hell did she do to get this house? Was it inherited? It seemed like two hundred people must have been there. Oh! Get this, there was an honest to god hippy with a guitar playing in the corner while someone recited poetry. This was the artsy stuff my parents thought I did in college. I got social anxiety and drank way too much and ended up puking in the gutter on the way home.
Those sorts of interactions were unusual. Tracey was usually in bed by the time I got back from teaching or I got back too late to run into her friends. Working until 11pm four nights a week and then pile on a couple Saturday classes really put me out of sync with most folks. Luckily I still had Friday nights and my friends and I would try out new bars and happenings in the area. Or just crash on my couch with a dumb movie and takeout because I was becoming too unsocialized for the outside world.
Sometimes we’d look up Tracey, because those GIFs were really great to laugh at. And, omg, the fonts. Did 1994 even have that many fonts? She was on a few old witch topic message boards and had her own BlogTown site (RIP BlogTown). It wasn’t clear exactly what type of witch she was, but was really keen on meeting new people and having them over to her place. I’m not sure she knew she was talking to the whole world. Her actual phone number was out there.
How do adults make friends when they’re not in school? I should have been better at doing more than just working. (Almost) no one plans on being an evil capitalist. Just like no one plans on being a resurrected corpse. At the very least, I could have tried to meet the new neighbors.
Tracey was that cool old lady that just stayed out of my way, and it ruled. I didn’t really want to be friends with my landlord. If she had anything important to tell me, like the boiler was getting serviced, she’d type it up and slip it into my mail slot. The woman really had a knack for picking the worst fonts. Being friends was probably a bad idea, even the coolest old person has their biases, you know? Like, they’ll be so dope about weed and then drop “oriental” into the conversation and you don’t want to make a scene but you can’t let that slide either.
Keep them at arm’s length, hehe.
You really should sit, you’re not going anywhere.
I took a lot of writing classes in college, and I know that I’m painting myself as the sympathetic one here. I’m the first to admit I’m a totally unreliable narration person. It’s so boring down here. My friends must think I finally cut the cord on social media. Damn, I miss scrolling in bed instead of sleeping. I miss sleeping, in general.
Around year three of living in the upstairs apartment over Tracey, things definitely started to get better. I got a part time job at a good-ish ad firm and I could quit teaching the Saturday classes. Finally, I could actually go to the farmers market on Saturday and not just get badly planned takeout. I was cooking my meals for the week on Sundays and I Had My Shit Together. I even went to the library sometimes.
The library was where I first got the “ick” sense that Tracey was “that” kind of boomer. Pinned to the community board was a flyer with ‘90s Word doc clip art, the tear offs bearing her phone number. The icky part of the flyer was the message: OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IS AT RISK. It was about coming together to respond to the “growing” homeless problem with big, comic sans letters, each one a different color like they meant to do a flyer for diversity day at the pre-school. Were they talking about the one lady with a shopping cart that hung around the gas station? Hardly an epidemic. Just give her some change and vote for affordable housing. This isn’t anything dire. God forbid Tracey found the Neighbrly app and got radicalized.
I wondered if her Saturday pagan meetings were somehow way more banal (and evil?) than I supposed. I pulled the flyer down and shoved it in my pocket. Three blocks later I threw it in the trash. The whole time I worried I’d run into her and she’d accidentally find out. She likes to take walks in the late afternoon. Then her old lady boomer witch senses would tingle, haha. I could destroy her flyer, but I couldn’t confront my landlady about her views on affordable housing. And what if the librarian found it, they’d just put it back up. And-and I really didn’t want to move. My rent was $500 under everywhere else in the area. It was such a deal.
I pulled down the flyer a few more times. I’d always throw it away in a new place–near work, at the grocery near my parents’ place, and one time I threw it away at the airport on the way to a business conference. The whole Jaunt ride to the airport I could feel it burning in my pocket. I was worried it would fall out and the driver would end up calling Tracey. Or the TSA would find it in my pocket and out me to her. I did not need a strip search and the judgement of my witchy landlady.
It’s kinda funny, I couldn’t remember to turn my books in on time and kept racking up late fees. But I could remember to check for her flyer and pull it down when I finally went in to pay off the fees. I can’t even read anymore.
Going back to that unhomed shopping cart lady, one time after the library incident I was walking back from the farmers market and I saw just her cart parked on the curb strip near Gerry’s house. And it creeped me out. It was just sitting out like that, full of all her stuff. I only ever saw her near the shops and the gas station. Never in the residential parts. After that I didn’t see her anymore.
I think landlady may have figured out something was up right after I got back from the business trip. We ran into each other on the porch while she was getting the newspaper. We chatted the goings on. It was just me and her in the building, but she was nice and official about this stuff. The Landlady was checking in with the Tennant. As we were chatting a guy pulled up. I can’t remember his name. It was one of those standard four or five letter names. I know it was something biblical, like Dave or Mike or John. Something basic. I remember thinking he was “prissy.” Maybe it was James?
By “prissy” I don’t mean “gay,” it’s not like that. Just a combo of business so rich he didn’t actually need to work. He was wearing a button down, tie, and a sweater vest on a freaking Sunday. And he did not like me. He was doing something in the backyard, but kept needing stuff from his car. And he hovered, pausing too long to watch us chatting, like what the fuck dude, have you seen Tracey’s friends? I’m just Tennant. We’re chill, can’t you be chill?
I can’t remember his name anymore. I can’t remember a lot of folks’ names anymore. But when I could remember his name I looked him up. He was the husband of a historical society president person. A pair of people that spent all their time (but other peoples’ money) to keep houses nice and unlived in. He should have been helping Tracey actually fix up her place. Helping me get my own place and become a pillar of the community. Instead he was just a rich priss with a tie on a Sunday.
Soon after, my manager for the pretty good part time ad firm died suddenly. I was having a lazy doze-in morning and smelling leftover cozy campfire smell from Tracey’s apartment. The wife of the owner of the firm called me. When I saw her name on the caller ID my heart dropped straight through the floor. Nothing good could come from being called by the head guy’s wife on the weekend. I was sure I was going to be fired in a spectacular blow out because I’d crossed some made up business boundary. Instead I found out Len, who I reported to, had a heart attack in the parking lot of a hospital. He didn’t call an ambulance, just tried to drive himself to the emergency room before his heart gave out. His backseat was filled with empty five hour energy drinks. I think about those bottles. Hiding them in his car so his coworkers and wife didn’t find out.
At the funeral, everyone at the firm called me family. They all said how much Ken respected me and my work. We went to his favorite bar afterwards and got full on drunk. One of the moms drove me back and she fed me her kids’ car snacks while we talked about the big projects we were going to work on. This was the business world I’d always envisioned. Fucked up, but better than not being family.
And then the ad firm work started drying up. Not all at once, but my dependable thirty hours a week became twenty hours “most weeks”. And then it was ten hours once a week (but I could charge overtime!). And then they hired a new guy to be in charge of me that said he was going to fill our department with cheap interns and “subdivide the fuck” out of my cubicle.
And then one day I walked into my cubicle–still not subdivided–and was told to go home. He told me they’d definitely call me when they needed me. And that was my last day. No goodbye party, and no unemployment. I didn’t realize that was going to be my last day and lost some of my favorite band posters. I’ll die mad about losing those band posters.
Well, maybe I won’t “die” mad. But fuck I liked those posters.
Speaking of being dead, you might be happy to know you’re definitely going to die. This isn’t a biological virus zombie situation. I’ll eat you, you’ll die, and then I’m going to finish mowing the backyard so the Landlady can put in pavers and re-do the old brick porch.
Hhhhhhm… brick. I think my dad was a bricklayer. Or maybe his name was Dick? Something like that, they rhymed. I know that.
Since I could see the way things might head, losing the ad firm didn’t affect me too badly. I started finding my own clients and signing respectable five figure contracts. My parents were so proud, even if they didn’t know what I did for a living. I even got offered a business loan from my bank. I didn’t take it because I wanted to build my business the right way without a bunch of debt. All I needed was my laptop and a place to park it. I used my profit to replace the used hundred dollar mattress from college. I updated my futon to a real god damn couch! Things were definitely going to be ok. If I was going to take out a loan, it would be to buy T’s house.
But each project never went as far as I thought it would. My very first national campaign had the manager mysteriously fired. He constantly told me he saw great potential. He promised we’d do tons of work together. Then I got an email from the senior manager of project accounts of something something and he was gone. I barely managed to get paid.
Then I took on a little project for my college. Just something to pass time and keep my day busy. A way to “give back” if I couldn’t find time to volunteer or money to donate. My first project with the head of marketing had the best metrics of anything he’d ever done. We raised tens of thousands of dollars with fast and flexible projects. In less than a year he was replaced with a quarterly print magazine and the college’s full time media department practically hissed at me when I offered to help.
Get this, I got paid $10,000 to make a pitch to BoxCo. Just the pitch paid ten grand. I worked so many nights to get that out. And they kept asking how I’d expand the campaign if I had more money. They wanted my vision and I was so ready to give it. And then with no explanation the whole thing became a single t-shirt for LA hipsters. And with that the project was deader than I am, heh.
One time I was flown out to the west coast for a big-big tech company project. It turned out my hiring manager was just looking for folks to join his ultra-conservative church. No, dude, I just want to get paid.
Each project I got was greater than the last. It was bigger, it paid better, and it was going to be my break. But it never went anywhere. I was working days, nights, and weekends so that I could build a normal life for future-me. I was told my work was the best ever, but I was never rehired. And the bigger the project, the longer I had to wait for a check. I swear the accounting departments at some of these places were established in the dark ages.
I know this all sounds like conspiratorial nonsense. The stuff boomers get into. Maybe it was all a coincidence. It doesn’t feel like it.
That last project I got was the best and the worst. I had to send weekly time reports to my manager at Super Big Company with the job’s code–let’s call that job code number one. Then when that project was done, they’d see if there was enough money in the budget to actually pay me from that budget. If not, I had to re-make my invoices with job code number two from a project that still had money. They would collect up all the outside contractors’ invoices and run them under a partner’s tax ID. So, really, I was working for another (Very Big) contracting company. Super Big Corporations only want to work with Very Big corporations. And that Very Big Corporation had their own system. So I’d be asked to change job code number two into a purchase order with–wait for it–another project code. Job/project code number three (?) would be re-submitted to the Super Big Company. And once it was submitted they would give that Very Big Company the official-official billing-job code number to put in the invoice. And at that point I had to send another invoice with that just so everyone had very final and official paperwork for their records.
I swear I’m not making this up, you can trust me on this. I don’t remember my friend’s faces, my parents’ names, or how to read. But gig corporate accounting departments are more evil than a multi-level marketing scheme.
It was so hard to keep track of hours. But who cared if ten hours of pay went missing, I was billing weekly! And once you got over the six to eight (to twelve) week delay in payment, you were making quadruple your rent–plus–expenses. But I still didn’t have my own desk. They wouldn’t even let contractors on the wifi. A fulltime employee had to chaperone me to the bathroom so I didn’t steal company secrets. I was in the big league.
And then someone fucked up that precisely-wound billing system, and the check didn’t come on week twelve. I was a Good Tenant and immediately gave The Landlady the 411. I showed her my invoices. I sent my profit and loss statements to show that I was a person that made money. I offered up extra late fees. Trixy was super nice about it.
That check backed up the other checks. Super Big and Very Big Company needed to figure out what went wrong before they sent out anymore checks. All the contractors were sent home until further notice. I had some savings, but I’d rather be late on rent than not eat. And I couldn’t stop paying off my student loans. I could pay the landlady back because I’d let her know and she was an ok boomer. I didn’t even cancel FlixPlus, because I needed something to do while I waited for those checks to come.
And I updated Tracey constantly so she knew what was happening. We were in this together and we’d get through it. She slipped weekly rundowns of the rent plus the extra fees into my mail slot so we both had something official. The rundowns were always done in a different font.
It was almost December and I got word that The Check had gone out. All the back pay, overtime, and hassle fees were included. I was getting paid and I was going to regain my full Good Tenant status. I let lady know that she was getting her money and she’d be able to upgrade the washer and dryer soon. The washer and dryer that kept tripping the fuses because they were ancient as fuck and weren’t energy efficient. I was already doing all my laundry in the bathroom sink because I knew I had to make things work for us. And once she was paid I’d make sure she got the best ones and some nice delivery people did all the install work for her. She wouldn’t need to call Mike Whatever Dumb Name.
Christmas plans would be responsible and frugal and at the apartment. My parents understood I couldn’t join them at the family lodge this year. I couldn’t afford the gas or time off and I needed to watch for The Check. It would be bad if I was goofing off and missed The Check.
And after another week had passed I had to ask apartment lady about The Check. Had she accidentally gotten it? The client was in the same city, my mails shouldn’t take more than a week. Sometimes that happened with mails, and she just put it in my slot. But it was the holidays and it’s so easy to miss these things or have a delay. I just wanted her to help me help her. Or something like that. It’s so hard to think sometimes.
I’ve always got to work myself up to this stuff. Just like it’s not easy to ask for help. If you have to do Bad Things, then you must do them because you’re a Good Person pushed to The Edge. Telling you this passes the time while I get hungry enough. Isn’t it worth it to live a few moments more?
I really remember that last night in the apartment. I wonder if I’ll ever forget it like the other stuff I can’t remember.
A little before Christmas, it’s a long, dark Saturday and downstairs the witch’s stuff is happening. My apartment was really cold, even though her’s had to be warm. But none of the heat filtered up to my apartment. The wind blew straight through the windows and I daren’t turn up the heat because that costs money. I could hear the broken porch railing slapping against the house, not quite in tempo with the bass downstairs. I’m under a million blankets and trying to pass out in front of some FlixPlus. I can’t seem to concentrate because the normally pleasant bass is a weird tempo or instrument or something. It’s an unscratchable itch against my primal alligator brain. Just as I’m about to politely ask that they wrap it up, the power goes out.
It wasn’t just the fuses. Or our fuses finally blew everyone else’s fuses. I couldn’t even see the house next door and it was less than ten feet from my window. There weren’t even any stars out, but maybe that was the storm. I could still hear the off tempo bass. Damn, it wasn’t memorex. I wondered how long it takes to freeze to death. Standing in front of the black window, wrapped in my warmest blanket, I hoped to see a passing car or anything that would show there were still people on the outside. Should I look up the symptoms of hypothermia or save my phone’s battery for a real emergency? I couldn’t bother the Witch then, there was a bigger problem. I got back to bed in the cold dark and hoped that I would wake up to a better tomorrow. I’d check on her once I had breakfast. She’s pretty old and someone has to look out for an old lady witch living alone.
Maybe I’d check on the new neighbors too. It would be a great excuse to see them.
And the next morning, I woke up here, just like you see it. A cozy basement apartment with my old used mattress and a big old iron door with a very impressive lock. They freshly painted it, but I obviously wrecked that a little. I even have a window. It faces the backyard so no one ever looks in. I was also very dead. It’s hard to explain. I just knew I was dead. I wasn’t cold. I don’t feel cold or warm anymore. Don’t feel pain either. Look, the stump doesn’t even hurt and I just lost this arm.
The Witch explained it, and it was less awkward than you would think. I just do what she says. In return, I get to live here. I get to go outside and sometimes I even get to run errands with her. This neighborhood is really amazing in the fall. Everyone’s houses are like spooky cakes frosted with crunchy leaf secrets.
But I have to take care of myself, she was very clear on that. And part of taking care of myself is eating a wonderful living person like yourself from time to time. I do that and nothing falls off. I’ll never be un-un-dead, but I’ll keep it together. But it’s really hard to concentrate on luring a vibrant life-sustaining person back to your place when all you want to do is rip off their face in the middle of the street. On the flip side, it’s hard to want to track down and eat a person when things are going ok. It makes me feel icky.
And, like, it’s gotta be people. Besides the fact that folks in this neighborhood would take up pitchforks if their dog or cat went missing…pets just don’t have the same concentrated juice a people has. I don’t mean to hate on dogs. Dogs are awesome. Damn hard to catch. Don’t get me started on cats.
She’s really so understanding. We have rules if I need a little help. It just gets added to my rent, and all I have to do is ask. I’m not sure how the lease works exactly. I might die when she dies, or it gets transferred? Or maybe she’s immortal? She is witch afterall. I do house chores to pay for rent, and any extra fees get added on top of the lease. Before I would have hated a basement apartment, but being dead really levels out your perspective on these things. The mattress was a nice touch considering I don’t sleep. I just stand in here until the sun comes up. Well, unless I have a guest like you to entertain.
But one time, while I was clearing the front step, I noticed a letter on her dining room table through the window. It was a really crisp autumn morning, I remember that because I was hoping nothing snapped off. It would just be another fee if I needed to ask her for some super glue. I don’t generate body heat anymore so gloves don’t work. And hand warmers just make my skin blister and fall off. I’ll probably need duct tape too. That’s the way to keep stuff really attached: super glue and duct tape. This letter was noticeable because of the return section. It had a big, red, H logo. You know what? That’s funny, can’t read, but remember the letter H. It looked like my missing big big client fuck up check. Inside the plastic window I could see the financial-blue color that meant it was a check. It was just sitting there on a table by the window, on top of a stack of her multi-fonted flyers. She must have brought it in herself. She must have noticed it. How long had it been there? Did she know it was mine? My eyes aren’t great so I couldn’t see who it was addressed to.
When I’m standing here at night I think about that. I think about my check in her apartment.
Wait, I think his name was Kevin. I know that’s not a bible name. But I just remembered it. Anyways, I think Kevon set this up. I hear him sometimes outside the door. When Ladywitch needs help with men’s chores I can’t handle. She gets him to come over and he does that stuff. One time I was really wailing on the door. I just couldn’t accept eating folks. I was sure that I could just strong arm through the cravings and prove I wasn’t a monster. And it got a little out of hand so she locked me up for my own good until she could find me some dinner. I’m damn strong since dying and I hit that door hard. I cracked my own sternum, want to see?
Right, so, Devin. I think he set this up because he came to fix the door. I managed to bend it in the frame, but also wedge it so it wouldn’t open at all. He came over and they had an angry conversation about it. I felt bad I got her in trouble. It makes sense that he did this, he’s probably managed doors like this in history homes he preserves. I had to eat the contractor they hired because there’s no good way to explain the undead girl in the basement. He was really good. Like, yeah, he tasted good. But he was also really good at iron work. His craftsmanship has stood up. If I can’t break it, you definitely can’t.
I know that window looks tempting, but it’s solid too. Didn’t even guess that. One guy had a gun and he tried to blow a hole in it. I can “pass” most days, but a blood splattered basement with a big iron door never looks good. Stupid bullet bounced right off and into his stupid eye. Guns create more problems than they solve. But I guess in this case it actually solved something? Lol.
Yeah, so today my arm fell off. It means I have not been taking care of myself. I was pushing the lawn mower and it got stuck. I should have stopped and explored the situation and not just tried brute force to dislodge it. I may be a reanimated corpse that is subjugated to my witch landlady’s will, but if I don’t take care of my own body then no one else will.
Once she saw the arm, she knew I wasn’t handling things and locked me up down here. Then, I guess, she found you. It’s probably easy to find someone passing through town since she’s got the upstairs place list on NetHostel. And that’s how you ended up down here with me. At this point the door is more for you than for me. I won’t let it happen again.
Before…this. I always thought I’d get to live somewhere nice and then travel a bunch once I established myself. Now I don’t go anywhere and eat travelers. You really have to laugh at the irony.
A small perk: it’s Saturday night. We can still hear the bass and smell that campfire smell. Or I think I can smell it, I can’t smell much anymore, maybe it’s just brain tricks. Either way, it’s not all that different than before. That bass doesn’t sound wrong anymore. It’s like the whole world is that bass. Saturdays are my favorite night. I usually try to have folks over on those nights but it doesn’t always work out. You’re lucky.
Where are you going? Look, she locked the door. That door I told you was made of iron by a top-notch dope oldschool ironworker. If I don’t eat you, she’ll just leave me down here until I’m too hungry to think, OR add the expense of killing you to the Rent. She was not happy that time when she found out there was a gun in the house. I’m trying to get back on her good side. Jamves setup that door. Rich pricks know quality.
Hey, you’re probably like me and have a ton of student debt, at least you’ll be dead soon and that’s one less thing to worry about?